


Infinite Jest

by Vituperative_cupcakes



Category: Inside No. 9 (TV)
Genre: M/M, Opposites Attract, fear of intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-26 01:51:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3832609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vituperative_cupcakes/pseuds/Vituperative_cupcakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An exploration of Carl and Stuart's relationship, pre-"Sardines"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Infinite Jest

**Author's Note:**

> I always thought there were a lot of hidden depths to their character dynamic, and I wanted to unpack it a little, see why these two might be together despite being at each other's throats so much.

The cruelest bit of all, of course, was the fact that it started as a joke. Stu had gown up wearing his flamboyancy as his armor. He owned it so deeply no one could ever use it against him. Any old queen jokes you knew, he could whip them out faster and filthier.

Carl had always been one of those icy, too-much-dignity queers. Set Stu's teeth on edge when they were first introduced, and he could tell by the little clench of his jaw that Carl felt it right back. Of course, the whole interior decoration industry was full of bigger bitches than an Irish wolfhound kennel, so what could one do?

Stu couldn't help it. He pressed Carl. He nettled him at every available opportunity, just to see him prickle like a hedgehog. It was too easy. Just a little press under the arm when passing, or mussing his carefully-cultivated hairdo, and Carl would start back as if Stuart had groped him openly. It was a mad game. Stuart felt bad for a while, seeing the panic spring up on Carl's face before the naked contempt chased it away. He looked like a lost little boy in those fleeting moments.

Carl was all beige drapes and ultra-modern furniture, restrained and squeaky-clean as Ingvar Kamprad's arsehole. It was fascinating to watch the bullet doors drop, watch Carl go dark behind the eyes as he tidily rearranged his emotions. Stuart wanted to be there when Vesuvius erupted, when the stiff upper lip finally collapse, but Carl refused to satisfy him in that respect. Even after Stu decoupaged cutouts from an old weightlifter magazine on the inside of a cupboard Carl was showing to prospective clients, there was no real confrontation. Carl simply closed the doors and directed the blushing young Pakistani couple to the recessed lighting as Stu smothered his giggles in his sleeve. After the couple left, Carl stalked up. Stu readied for the swing.

Instead Carl said, “maybe next time, try to pack a little professionalism in that ridiculous hair of yours,” and stalked off again.

It was puzzling. Gary, who he'd worked with off and on over the years, had once nearly killed him with an abstract vase for sewing the drapes together. Carl had such a large stick up his arse it was a wonder he could bend at the waist. Yet he never lashed out at Stuart who, yes, could admit to himself that he was a rambunctious little shit. He couldn't help it. It was too much fun to see Carl bristle, as compulsive as biting your nails or chewing on the ends of pencils(both of which he did.)

So Stu asked him out.

It was in jest, of course. Just like the congratulatory bum-pats and the vulgar flirting, just another way to get a rise out of the biggest ice queen south of the arctic. Stuart had known going in that he would not get an answer.

Carl's face registered mild shock before smoothing over like the surface of a lake after a rock's been thrown in.

“Really?” he asked, and then, too soon for Stuart to say anything more: “alright then.”

And he walked off, inscrutable as always.

Stuart purposely picked the most flaming bar he possibly could, and wore an ensemble inspired by the Jackson five. Would Mr. Freeze actually show?

He did.

Stu watched with fascination as Carl traversed the room to their table, tucking his elbows in as if wading through a battle. It was a scream. The date was so obviously Stu's scene, but he wouldn't back down. Stu, to his nature, had to push. Had to push and push just to see how far before Carl exploded like a glass canon.

Carl sat at his place and unfolded a napkin on his lap. “What's good here?”

“Carlo Gambini.”

“Sounds sweet. Does it have rum in it?”

“No, he's behind the bar.” Stu pointed with his chin. Carl began to look and then stopped himself, face reddening.

“I could get his number if you like dear.” Stu, delighting in it, put his hand on Carl's knee.

The reaction was odd. Carl went fluid for a heartbeat, and then tensed up as if steeling himself.

“No, no thank you.” He gave a polite laugh and studied the menu. He didn't remove Stu's hand.

It was like watching an intricate dance. Carl flurried about, trying to touch everything the least he could. He straightened up like a schoolboy every time Stuart asked a question.

“So, you're new to the sisterhood of the traveling pants, then?”

“Hmm?” Carl puzzled that one out. “Oh...yeah.” He tapped his neatly-trimmed nails on the tabletop. “It...takes some getting used to, I’ll admit.”

“So, you didn't get the pamphlet in the post?”

And dear god, his face registered real confusion, as if he actually believed there was one.

“The 'Gay Dispatch'? We've tried to get it a permanent publication but right now it's just bi-monthly.”

That was the first time Stuart had ever seen him smile. Really smile. He was actually quite cute when he did, it cut down the intensity of those big, teary blue eyes, brought out the cleft in his chin. Stuart, unable to ever let anything rest, poked it with his finger. Carl yelped like a puppy and started back.

Stuart grinned. “Sorry, couldn't resist.”

Carl gave him a...not adversarial look. It was hard to decipher. In fact, Stuart had not learned anything really useful about Carl by the night's end. His family(“we're...not close”) his hobbies(“I enjoy working”) or even his favorite position(“...I like managerial work” hopeless, that one) it was vexing.

So, for revenge, when Carl went in for the goodnight handshake, Stuart kissed him.

And it was then that Carl made such a precious whimpering noise that Stuart was instantly and irrevocably lost.

If he took it apart in his hands, nothing made sense. Carl, so dignified he practically shat marble, and Stuart, the vintage scream queen. If you took it apart, it was impossible to see why and how everything went, but put it together, the pieces fit without a seam.

The first night they were together Carl whispered “no, no” and pushed aside Stuart's hand. So Stuart nuzzled his way down Carl's body and they ended up cuddling in Stuart's duvet(fashioned from an old parachute, but silk was silk.)

“I’m sorry,” Carl said.

“Oh good lord, you couldn't do that in the bathroom?” Stuart mock-waved his hand in front of his face.

“No, I mean...I’m sorry. I couldn't...do the thing you wanted.”

Stuart wriggled around until they were facing. Carl's glasses were off, his carefully combed hair askew. He looked almost human.

“Don't worry about it, love,” he whispered. “takes some getting used to. I understand.”

He tried to.

But months of reluctant sexual encounters, months of Carl's resentful stare on his back as he left for a night out, Stu didn't feel any closer to it. Carl acted as if even the mess of a relationship was beyond him, but when Stuart's landlord finally put his glasses on and discovered Stuart wasn't a young woman, Carl offered his flat up.

“After all, it's only fair. I practically lived at your place.” Carl said.

“Right, but...” Stuart couldn't quite put into words how Carl's bed didn't look like it should be slept in, much less _slept_ in. Carl's whole flat looked like a showroom. It looked like the ghost of Stanley Kubrick should be haunting the crisp while halls. Stuart starting throwing up some homier touches(Dracula poster in the alcove? Yes, please!) and waited for the confrontation.

Instead...he caught Carl staring at them contemplatively. He did that. Stuart would be mid-filibuster on whatever was on his tits that minute, and find Carl staring at his hands. Or his legs. As if he couldn't quite believe Stuart.

Well, the feeling was mutual.

Jim, the twenty-seven-year-old who could bounce pennies of his bum and left to go teach old ladies the rumba on the QE2, had been unable to pin Stuart into monogamy.

How did Carl do it?

That stare.

That hot, still stare that grabbed Stuart in not-quite-the-bollocks and drew him to poke and pick until Carl's reserve broke down. Carl was a puzzle that had to constantly be unlocked, and there were forever more locks and forever more levels, and Stuart was never bored.

He did get frustrated. They both did, it's how the world worked.

Carl still wasn't quite open, wouldn't hold hands in public, never talked about himself in enough detail to satisfy Stuart. So Stuart, for petty revenge, would go out at night and carouse and drink and leave Carl steaming. Really, Stuart couldn't even enjoy _that_ anymore. All he would do was order drinks and gaze after the men young enough to be his sons and think of Carl at home, rearranging the flat until it no longer looked touched by human hands. All the fun was out of everything, then.

Carl would be up, no matter how late Stuart came in. and a familiar play would play out:

“Oh, hi. Didn't mean to wake you.”

“You didn't.”

Silence.

“You been waiting long?”

“Not long.”

Silence.

“I'll just...get these clothes off then.”

And then Stuart would go to the bedroom and Carl would follow him and they might undress in the dark and say nothing, or Carl might say “wait...” or “there's something...” and then they would embrace and it would seem like everything might really be alright after all.

It might've been alright.

They never got to find out, because one day Carl came into the bedroom with a look on his face like he'd just been slapped, holding a pink card.

“My sister's getting married.”

 


End file.
